Dust upon the Wind
by SneakyWalrus
Summary: The Empire of Bone stretches across the land, its Ivory forest consuming all before it. But the kingdom needs the blood and bone of innocents to expand, and Ostarion marches forth at the head of his army, ready to conquer in his own name. Before him, a single man stands ready to defend a small village, history guiding his hand.


The Ivory Forest is a terrifying amalgamation of bone and death, the remains of thousands dead, skin flayed and stretched like an animals, bones purified and used to construct towering ivory monoliths, the mixing bones spread and shaped by the risen artists of Ostarion, femurs and shins forming branches, ribs and knuckles splitting apart in a horrific copy of natural leaves.

Outwards the Ivory forest spreads, moving forth like an unstoppable glacier of death. Like an infection, a plague, it ever spreads, consuming all in its path.

Some attempt to stop its growth, the Omnicent Crusades, the Knights Fold Purges, all of it at a horrendous cost to life. For every man that dies within the forest, rises again in service of the Skeleton King, ready to slay his own allies in an instant.

Centuries have past since the last crusade, priests and paladins more concern with their wealth and lordships than smiting any great evil. They trust in the ancient wards set by the combined powers of the Gods, sealed by Furion, Nature's Prophet.

A single bridge is the only way into that desolate land.

It already lies broken, its form defiled through twisted magicks of the dead, all in service to the Lord of Bones. The powerful wards were unattended, the token watchmen slaughtered by silent flames, souls consumed by the Bone Fletcher.

An undead horde weaves its way through the land, burning the life away from its path. Soil is salted, trees are burned away en mass, the wild-life, no matter how wild or strong it grows, is slaughtered and turned in service of the King.

Throughout the forest, beasts cry out in pain, the land dying beneath this deadly onslaught. Deep within the woods, the ancient golems sit and discuss their reaction to this horrendous affront to nature, arguing and debating one another to the course of action, too later coming to a solution to strike back against this horrific foe before their hides are split open.

Drakes of black scale take to the air; wing beats sounding through the trees, poisonous breath spat into the air, raining down upon the endless dead. No effect is had, for how can something made to destroy the living hope to harm the dead?

Instead, they swoop, massive talons dismembering hundreds of the skeletons, scything claws splitting apart the terrible titans of bone, the moving trees of the Ivory forest flailing skyward, a thousand hands reaching, failing to grasp their foe.

Atop his pure white steed, the King briefly motions to his side, summoning his servant forward. From the shadows, the immortal Bone Fletcher comes forth; form appearing in a burst of fire and ash, searing the bones of those surrounding him.

Bowing lowly, the demonic creature moves quickly, faster than any man, the flames of the sixth hell dancing at his heels. His blackened hands are wrapped tightly around his bow, and the ever-smiling skull twisted towards the sky, cruel laughter echoing among the undead.

A younger drake, one filled with the arrogance of age and power, swoops low, claws reaching, only for his body to become engulfed in flames, skin and muscle burning away in the demonic fires called forth by Clinkz. The other child, sister to its murdered brethren, roars in anger.

Too late the eldest dragon intervenes, the scant seconds between the death of his first child and his second.

Clinkz bounds forwards, his lithe form shifting between plains of reality, the powers stolen from the sixth level of hell burning away at his blackened skeleton. As the skeleton of the first drake barely touches the earth, skeleton smashing apart, he jumps and spins between the collapsing bones, before leaping skyward from the tail end of the skeletal drake, bow held firmly and arrow nocked.

The second drake follows in much the same as its brother. She dives forward, mouth open to release poisonous rage upon her brother's slayer.

Clinkz abuses this.

His arms shift between plains, from earth to hell, a multitude of arrows launched in an instant. Striking the drake in its open jaws, the hellfire ignites the poisonous breath, blowing the drakes mouth apart.

It tumbles to the earth, and Clinkz leaps forward once again, dancing along its spine, skull ever smiling at the havoc it caused. The final dragon, older than its two children, roars long and loud in pain, smashing past the shifting skeleton that dances along its child's body, taunting him to attack, instead focusing on the true master.

Ostarion rises to meet the challenge.

The sun disappears, blocked by the dragon's leathery wings.

The King's sword swings high.

Massive teeth, pockmarked by poisonous acid eating away at them, close.

The sword, inlaid with gold and bronze, descends.

Blood sprays across his ivory body, his cloak drinking in the crimson stains, smoke rising from the hellfire burning with the King's skull.

Slowly the horde continues its work, three massive undead drakes burning away the land with poisonous hellfire.

Soon, the forest gives way to empty farmlands, massive fields suited to raising livestock and simple farming. In the distance, a township, its people indebted to their lordship, fearful that he had come to collect.

Ahead, standing in the midst of the road, is a man wrapped in a dark cloak, obscuring his features.

At his side, speared into the earth, is a simple spear, rusted and pitted from use, no more than a fishing spear, with its arrow-like head shining like burnished gold, reflecting the light of the midday sun.

Despite the rough brown cowl, the man's distinguishing features still shine through. A simple armored belt, a long tabard decorated in shining metal, hung from his waist, simple tanned leather stretching up across his left shoulder, tying into a massive piece of plate, engraved in swirling lines of sunlight.

More tanned leather reached down to burnished armour, the colour of the shining sun, shielding his entire arm.

Most unique however, was the man's skin colour. It was blue like the sky, his body coated in fine fur, reaching up to his hidden face, hiding away feline features.

Golden dust twists in the eddies of the wind, silent currents carrying away sparkling gold.

The King leans forward, intrigued.

A voice answers, a million men with a single body.

"No further."

The King laughs, and waves his arm forward.

A pack of skeletons march forward, jerky and unequally stepping, the dead moving on command, not ability.

The first strikes at the standing man, only for a being of gold to lean forward, a shining shade of the warrior peeling away from his form, spear swinging briefly, shattering its foe. Slowly, it returns to the same position as the man it stands beside, same in appearance and ability.

Again and again, the pack attacks, only for more men to form, each turning their foes to dust in a single strike.

The King stands, and whips his arm forth.

More and more skeletons march forward, each battling new men, each identical, but for the swirling dust that spins and rides on the currents of the wind. On occasion, the skeletons would mortally wound the man, only for his body to shatter like glass, turning to golden dust and floating away.

More than a hundred skeletons are shattered, bones cracked and ruined. A hundred men stand still, each identical, cloaks flapping in the wind.

As one, each turns and pulls at their cowls, throwing their cloaks away into the wind, where they disintegrate into that swirling gold, flickering in the wind.

In union, they turn and raise their spears, a million men given a hundred voices.

"We are Azwraith, the Phantom Lancer. And we are many."

As one, they charged forward, sun catching the light of their spears, illuminating their attack. A Legion of One went to war against the Endless dead.

The King rose from his steed, a hearty voice echoing among the dead.

"All kneel before the King of Bone! Forward!"

His neck twisted, burning eyes glancing backwards.

"Clinkz!"

From within the shadows, a sinister voice answered.

"Of course my liege."

All around the King, the combat swirled and spun, the endless dead collapsing into broken bone and crushed ivory, while sparkling gold shifted in the wind, the shattered remains of the Legion.

The fight continued for day and night, each side warring endlessly, untiring and unforgiving, striking and cleaving apart their foe. Massive drakes crushed hundreds under foot, golden light swarming over their bodies and breaking open their bones.

Massive structures of ivory, the swirling bone trees tore bloody gapes within the Legion's line, taking down many before they could be struck down.

Bolts of shifting gold spun and sparked, lightning cracking apart their foes.

Clinkz danced among the warriors, firing endless arrows into those that opposed him, hellfire consuming any who he targeted, souls fracturing and consumed by his hunger.

Ostarion split apart dozens, the moon rising and setting before the awakened sun, sword swinging and cleaving apart the light.

A dozen spears pierced his ribs, their masters splitting apart his body. His bones shattered and his sword fell limply at his side, his arm disconnected from the rest of his body.

The King died.

The King lived.

His body reknits itself, bones drawing tight, frayed cloth re-stitching itself, metal bending and welding itself together once again. Shattered limbs, reduced to a powdered state, reform in an instant, while his body burned from within, hellfire filling his soul.

The wind carried away flecks of gold, dust on the wind.

Ostarion held his foe within his burning hand, terrible hellfire burning away the warrior's flesh.

"All kneel before the Empire of Bone, sooner or later."

He raised his sword with his other arm; swinging himself in a circle, vile laughter echoing among the few remaining skeletons, the low burning cinders of Clinkz barely holding him together.

Soon, the wraith within his hand began to laugh as well, blood swirling within his lungs and dribbling down his chin, body at the brink of death.

"You dare mock the King?"

"The King of what? Your army is gone, and the people that once lived here have fled, taking their wealth. The length of our battle let them drive away the animas that live in this region, leaving it barren and unable for you to convert."

The feline man leaned forward, fur and skin melting away beneath the intensity of burning hellfire.

"You failed _King_."

The wraith continued to laugh, as rage over took the King, his form quivering in anger.

The grip around Azwraith's neck tightened, choking his laughter.

"Even if I failed here, you have fallen. None shall be able to stop my return once again."

"Do you truly believe that I am the real Azwraith? Then you are both a King and a Fool."

Phantom Lancer's body faded away, golden dust floating away, carried by a gentle wind.

Surrounded by the carnage, the loss of power and wealth, Ostarion screamed in rage.


End file.
